


John Wayne Returns to the Nest

by Marie (VampireSpider)



Category: John Finnemore's Double Acts
Genre: M/M, Penguins as metaphors, Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:19:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireSpider/pseuds/Marie
Summary: Bunning returns to London and considers the problem of penguins.





	1. London

The heat of London in July seemed to be _invading_ the room, making his uniform feel tight, the collar sticking to the back of his neck. George shook his head slightly – what an unnecessarily fanciful image – and straightened up. The admiral was still perusing his report closely. George kept himself at attention, his gaze just above the admiral’s head. He knew the report was correct. He was _almost_ sure the report was above board.

 

The _almost_ was niggling him. He didn’t like almosts.

 

The room seemed to be getting warmer; the stuffy, thick air filled his lungs, and not for the first time, he found himself longing for the clear crispness of South Georgia. Or, perhaps even more so, the freezing, penguin-smelling snap of the air on Skarstenø.

 

“Hm,” the admiral said, and George was back in the dark wood and dour portraits of the admiralty office. He nodded smartly.

  
“Yes, sir?”

 

“There’s nothing we can offer, in your opinion? Nothing to make Skarstenø appealing to the Danes, convince them to give up their claim on what is _clearly_ Goodwill Island?”

 

The admiral pronounced Skarstenø all wrong. George didn’t correct him. “Nothing but penguins, sir,” he said, his voice neutral.

 

“Well, I must say, it looks pretty unsolvable,” the admiral said, sighing deeply. George let himself relax just a fraction. “What sort of man is the governor?”

 

For the briefest of moments, George imagined actually answering the question and telling the admiral that the governor was a mad man who loved penguins and chess and had a weakness for pineapple, and really _deserved_ this island, this small piece of the peace.

 

Ludicrous. Instead, he said, “Quite impossible to move.”

 

“An intimidating fellow, eh?” the admiral said, and George thought of Søndergaard standing outside his hide, skinny and red-cheeked, tuft of unruly blond hair eternally sticking out of his hood.

 

George suspected Lauren Bacall could take down Søndergaard if it came down to it.

 

“Unmoveable on this matter,” he said diplomatically, “and backed, I believe, by the government in Copenhagen.” He hoped the admiral wouldn’t think to ask about the local population. There was only so many times he could lie about the penguins’ ability to organise.

 

“Pah,” said the admiral disgustedly, looking back down into his papers. “They’re impossible. You would think they’d remember who liberated them. Four years isn’t as long as all that.”

 

“Quite,” George said levelly. “We can only hope they shift on this issue.”

 

“Well, quite, quite,” the admiral said, nodding. He sighed again. “I say, old man, this puts me in a bit of a tight spot.”

 

George nodded and waited. It was often best not to speak until the admiral had worked himself up to his actual point.

 

“I am sorry to do this, particularly in light of your record and your successes in the past,” the admiral was saying. George kept his eyes just above the admiral’s head, ignoring the papers which, he presumed, were his record. “But you will have to return to South Georgia.”

 

There was a painful twinge in George’s chest and for a moment, he thought perhaps he was suffering a heart attack. Then the moment passed. “I hadn’t realised I was being reconsidered for the post,” he said.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, old boy, we would never normally send someone to the end of the earth _twice_.” The admiral huffed incredulously. “Particularly not a man with so many years of excellent service. But it’s out of my hands on this one. Back to the ice fields, I’m afraid to say.”

 

“One does what one must,” George said without smiling.

 

“That’s the spirit!” the admiral nodded. “Just what I’d expect. Good man.” He reached over and shook George’s hand. “Good old Bunning. Always reliable, just what I’d expect.”

 

George allowed himself a small smile.

 

++

 

He stepped out of the admiralty, shielding his eyes against the bright sun light. Momentarily, he wished for the sunglasses that were standard issue for any expedition going to either pole. _Just what the admiral expected_ , he thought, and smiled widely without meaning to.

 

He hadn’t needed to look at his record. He knew damn well what it said: solid, consistent achievement, always doing well, never excelling, never a foot out of line. He was one of the few survivors of the war who hadn’t a single reprimand or commendation on his record. Straightforward, reliable Bunning, that’s who he was, who he had always been.

 

And now, because of one foot not-even-really out of line (not in terms of the _letter_ of the law, he reassured himself) reliable, no-complaints Bunning was going back to South Georgia. It should have felt like a punishment, back to the end of the earth. George found himself smiling again.

 

++

 

“To South Georgia again?” Kitty said in dismay. “Oh, George, you’ve only just returned. I hoped – I had thought –” George’s younger sister frowned down at her rather excellent chicken.

 

“We had thought, well, you know old bean,” her husband, Rex, said, looking pained, “we thought you might come home. Settle down. Lizzie and Jem, they could do with some cousins, you know.”

 

George looked at his plate and then around at Kitty and Rex’s lovely dining room, with its well-chosen furnishings and pictures of them, their children, Rex on the day of his de-mob. He frowned.

 

“Orders, you know,” he said and Rex and Kitty both nodded. Kitty had been a wren, Rex had served in the army. They both knew the meaning of service.

 

Still, Kitty wasn’t done. “I know, but surely you’ve done your time and you’re not getting younger. And what if you never have…” she trailed off, looking around. “Oh George,” she said again.

 

He ducked his head. “It’s all right, Kitty, I’ll be all right. South Georgia’s hardly the worst posting in the world.”

 

Kitty looked like she was about to disagree. Rex cleared his throat again. “It’s just – I can’t imagine…you know, Kitty, the family, this is the greatest happiness a man can get,” he said, smiling softly at Kitty, and George felt himself smile too.

 

“Until Lauren Bacall ruins it,” he said lightly. Kitty stared at him. George smiled back at her. “Did I not tell you about the penguin expert?” Explaining who Søndergaard really was would take too long, but George was willing to gamble that Kitty, a soft touch for animals since they had been children and George had rescued squirrels and birds and kittens for her, would want to hear more about the penguins.

 

He was correct. “Penguins?”

 

“Lancelot penguins,” he said. “Apparently, they are very loyal, loving creatures – however, the expert has found that is only true until Lauren Bacall gets involved.”

 

Rex looked confused. Kitty nodded slowly. “Lauren Bacall is a…penguin?” she asked and George nodded enthusiastically.

 

“Exactly. She’s what my expert calls _an unattached penguin_ ,” he explained, recalling Søndergaard’s hands moving pawns about as he presented his research, long fingers picking up and reorganising the lancelots based on the most recent romantic developments. His breath caught barely noticeably. “So, you see, most penguins are attached – forming partnerships that last two or more years. Lauren Bacall, well. She barely stays for a few months. Leaving a trail of broken marriages in her wake.”

 

“Oh, what a horrible penguin,” Kitty said, reprovingly.

 

“She really is a _terrible_ penguin,” George said, “what she did to Fred Astaire, it was a wonder Katherine Hepburn would take him back…” He drifted off, trying to remember the exact sequence of events, before deciding it didn’t really matter. He looked up to see Kitty eyeing him eagerly, a familiar keen look on her face and he felt a familiar answering sense of fondness.

 

“Go on then,” Rex said, passing the potatoes around again. “Tell us.” And George smiled and did.

 

The penguins carried them through dessert. Rex was pouring brandy when George reached Humphrey Bogart. When he mentioned the egg, Kitty covered her mouth in horror. “She refused to sit on the _egg_?” she said, as if she couldn’t imagine anything more atrocious. “What happened?”

 

“Well, initially nothing much – you see, male penguins also sit on their eggs, so the egg’s just fine for a while. However, the problem comes with the feeding. Left on its own, the egg freezes and dies.”

 

“But Humphrey has to eat,” Kitty said and George nodded. “So what did he do?”

 

George opened his mouth and then closed it again, swallowing. He thought of John Wayne, striding in and bringing Humphrey a fish. He remembered watching the way John Wayne fussed about the egg, Søndergaard gleefully bouncing on the balls of his feet next to George, and the tears in Søndergaard’s eyes during the hatching of little Judy Garland. He thought of the way Humphrey and John fussed over her and each other. Bringing each other food. Bringing each other stones.

 

Ah.

 

He suddenly knew, feeling the same sudden pain in his chest as he had felt earlier, that he couldn’t tell Kitty and Rex about John Wayne. He caught Kitty’s eye and then looked away.

 

George opened his mouth and said, “Oh, Lauren Bacall came back. Nature will out in these things.” Rex looked relieved and, after a second, Kitty clapped her hands. She kept her eyes on George. George took a measured sip of his brandy.

 

“Thank God,” Rex said, “I wasn’t sure I could end the night on a dead baby penguin.” George forced himself to laugh and Kitty tilted her head.

 

“Nature red in tooth and claw, I know,” she said, quietly “but I do so love a happy ending.” She was still watching George carefully.

 

“On that note,” he said, “I might retire for the night.” He got to his feet, thanking Rex for his hospitality and kindness.

 

“I’ll walk you out,” Kitty said. George opened his mouth to say he was sure the maid could find his coat, but one glance at Kitty’s determined face told him there was no point.

 

“Thank you for dinner, it’s so good to see you so happy and contented,” he said. “You’ve built a lovely home, Kitty.”

 

“Thank you,” she said shortly, still looking at him. “And you’ve never felt tempted? What you said about penguins – you’ve never wanted to build your own nest?” George looked down and tried to push away Søndergaard’s voice saying, “the first step in nest building is finding their own piece of rock. Often one penguin prepares and presents it to the other.”

 

Kitty watched him patiently. “George,” she said and her voice was low and deliberate. “What actually happened with Humphrey Bogart’s egg?” His little sister looked him square in the eye, the same as she used to during their mother’s illness, insisting he tell her the truth.

 

He hesitated only briefly and then, dropping his eyes, George said, “Lauren Bacall didn’t come back.” He swallowed and looked up, meeting Kitty’s gaze. “John Wayne stepped in. He and Humphrey Bogart took care of the egg.” He could see her take this in, nodding slowly.

 

“What’s his name?” she said then. “Your penguin expert. What’s his name?”

 

“Søndergaard,” George said quietly. Kitty nodded again and then she smiled gently.

 

“Thank you for coming tonight,” she said. “We’ll miss you, the children particularly. You should send them a souvenir when you get back down there.”

 

George blinked rapidly. “I might be able to get them a penguin sculpture.”

 

She smiled again. “And I wish to be kept abreast of the penguins’ development as well. It’s better than a serial on the wireless.” The laughter which escaped George felt like relief and he leaned forward to hug Kitty briefly.

 

“You always have a home here,” she said.


	2. Skarstenø - Goodwill Island [disputed]

“Bunning!” George looked up from where he was carefully stepping up the rocky side of the island and saw Søndergaard almost running towards him, smiling wildly. He was prepared now for the pain in his chest, but he still felt oddly breathless. Probably the climb.

 

“Request permission to enter Danish territory?” he said and Søndergaard smiled even wider if possible.

 

“Wherever we are, request granted.” He held out a hand and George took it, letting himself be pulled up onto flat rocky plane of the top of the island. “Would a hug be out of line for two governors greeting each other?” Søndergaard asked, peering at him.

 

“Of course, highly unorthodox,” George said without thinking.

 

Søndergaard laughed. “Bunning, I _have_ missed you,” he said and pulled George into a hug.

 

“I missed you too,” George mumbled into Søndergaard’s shoulder, letting himself bring his arms up around the other man for a brief moment. Then he disentangled himself and gestured behind him. “I see you’re up to your old smuggling tricks,” he said.

 

Søndergaard laughed again, and George couldn’t hide his smile. “You old rascal! From London?”

 

“I couldn’t possibly say,” George said, shrugging.

 

“Well, come into the governor’s mansion and we will look at what nefarious items I was aiming to smuggle. And you can say hello to the penguins!”

 

“How are the little fellows?” George asked, following Søndergaard into the smelly, cosy space of his hide. He noted the chess set on the table and the box of tea he had gifted Søndergaard with before he left (“In case you have to charm a new governor,” and Søndergaard had said, “a new governor will have no tea from me, I’ll keep it until you come back.”). It was familiar and felt a little like coming home. He glanced up to catch Søndergaard watching him with a fond smile on his face.

 

“I suspect you haven’t heard a word,” he said, filling the kettle with ice. “But that’s all right, I’ve kept the important one for last. Judy is thriving, Bogie and Wayne have been doing an excellent job.”

 

“Oh,” George said, sitting down. “Ah. That _is_ good news.” Søndergaard nodded decisively.

 

“I rather thought so, yes,” he said. “Now, shall we see…Oh, pineapple chunks, you remembered! And _chocolate_ , I can’t believe you bought me chocolate.”

 

“Yes, my sister gave me some of her coupons to make sure you had enough for the next stretch,” George explained. Søndergaard looked at him for a long moment and George tilted his head, wondering what he was thinking. Whatever was worrying him passed quickly enough and he turned back to the bag.

 

“Ah, and more brandy, you are a treasure, Bunning, you really are. What else, what else?” Søndergaard was all but cooing over the contents, and George stood up and went to look at the viewing window, watching the penguins carefully until he spotted, ah yes, still in their nest, Humphrey and John, huddled close together, and Judy between them, barely more feathered than last time he had seen her.

 

As he watched, John rubbed his beak against Humphrey’s, a motion Søndergaard had likened to kissing or “cuddling, I suppose you British would call it, even if you’re too stuffy to do it.” George had replied, quite offended, “Of course we’re not too stuffy,” and Søndergaard had laughed at him, nudging his shoulder.

 

At the time, George had not been able to explain the way his cheeks had gone red.

 

He could explain now. He took a deep breath and turned around to see Søndergaard having got to the bottom of the bag.

 

“A blanket?” he said, pulling the object out of the bag.

 

“It’s, err, it’s a quilt actually,” George said and it was; grey, green and white hexagons sewn together, a pattern he had seen at Kitty’s. The colours had reminded him of this island, with its stubborn shrubberies, its slate grey rocks and sudden shocking stretches of snow. Søndergaard was staring at him like he might have said that out loud. There was a long moment of silence in the hide. Outside, the penguins honked and chirped along as normal.

 

George swallowed. “Do you not like it?” he asked. Søndergaard shook his head rapidly.

 

“It’s _lovely_ Bunning, truly lovely.” He was still looking at George in that same way, like he wasn’t sure what to say. It was strange, George thought distantly, Søndergaard was rarely ever at a loss for words. Seeing him silent was odd. He looked out of the window again at the penguins.

 

If he went ahead, he might never hear Søndergaard speak again. He might never see the penguins again, never play chess, never have to dissuade Søndergaard from experimenting with seaweed.

 

He turned back and saw Søndergaard still standing, holding the quilt in his arms and there was something sweet about the way he stood there, tall and lanky, blond hair sticking every which way, in an oversized woolen jumper and holding a quilt that made George think of home.

 

George swallowed. “Do you know, when I was in London, it was unbearably warm,” he said and Søndergaard nodded. “And so I spent a lot of time inside, in the cooler dark, and one of the places I ended up returning to was the British Library. They don’t have a lot of books on penguins, you understand, but they had enough, and so I read up on the literature. I thought it might be helpful if I got reassigned back here.”

 

He took a deep breath in and Søndergaard nodded encouragingly. He was still holding the quilt, and there was that twinge in George’s heart again.

 

“Anyway, one of the things there is _some_ writing on, is, well, I suppose you’d call them courtship rituals. You know, like you explained to me.” Søndergaard nodded again and George hoped he was right in thinking he saw a hint of a smile at the corner of Søndergaard’s mouth. “Apparently, penguins are quite the romantics of the bird world,” he said, looking at his hands. “They bring their intended penguin all kinds of things – rocks and pebbles, leaves, fish.”

 

“Pineapple chunks?” Søndergaard interrupted and George snapped his head up.

 

“Well,” he said, proud of the way his voice didn’t tremble at all, “it would have to be a rather large and industrious penguin to procure a tin and get it back to the island.” Søndergaard laughed and pushed away from the table he was leaning against, the quilt still in his arms. “Anyway, the serious declaration comes when, ah, when – ”

 

“When the penguin creates a nest for his mate,” Søndergaard finished, standing in front of George and smiling wider than George had ever seen him doing. “You know, it occurs to me that we have never exchanged first names.” He held out his hand. “Aksel Søndergaard.”

 

George blinked at him. “Axel?” he tried and Søndergaard shook his head fondly.

 

“Close enough,” he said, and gestured with his open hand. George took it.

 

“George Bunning,” he said, shaking it briefly.

 

“Well, George,” Aksel said, stepping closer and letting go of his hand. “I have considered your offer, and given the fact that you have given me the best nest I could have ever hoped for – yes. Of course, yes.”

 

“Oh,” George said and found that he couldn’t help smiling, looking at Aksel’s happy, blushing face. Indeed, he felt powerless against the urge to curve towards Aksel who smiled even wider and met him half way. They kissed, the quilt pressed between them.

 

Outside, Lauren Bacall was resolutely ignored by John Wayne and fluffed her feathers in annoyance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is on record as having made up lancelot penguins and as such I feel no guilt at having made up their mating habits, although I believe they're not a million miles off the mating habits of actual penguins. 
> 
> Comments, thoughts, kudos, excitement about Double Acts, all appreciated. You can also come talk to me on twitter: @dagensdatter.


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